


Ellipticals

by prof_pangaea



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, University-Era Holmes, old fic, pedagogical eros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prof_pangaea/pseuds/prof_pangaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two young men sit down and have a conversation about familial obligations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ellipticals

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written in 2004, back when writing Holmesian slash would still get you comments like, "The writing is good, but I really don't agree with the... plot." Thanks to Pythoness, wherever she is now, for originally inspiring my mind to go into the direction of Holmes/Moriarty with her fic from the holmesslash listserv, with further inspiration and encouragement from [branwyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn).

There was a quiet knock at the door, which then opened to admit a very tall, slender boy, his thin cheeks still pink from the outside chill though his coat and hat were absent, no doubt both downstairs in the cloakroom. He wore a dark suit with shiny elbows and slight ink stains round the right cuff that identified him as a student. He had an intense gaze, which was currently locked upon the sole resident of the small room.

"Please do sit down," Mycroft invited from his large armchair. "It is not the grandest room in the club, I admit, but it certainly has no dearth of furniture."

The boy lowered himself, a little stiffly, into a hard-looking hand wrought wooden chair, and continued to be annoyingly silent.

"You were missed at the funeral," said Mycroft.

"I saw no need to attend."

"Of course." There was a silence. The boy continued to stare, hands folded neatly in front of him.

"You know the terms of the will. Wills," Mycroft corrected himself.

"Yes. You control the money – what is left of it, at any rate. I understand the manor house is a lost cause."

"Yes, mortgaged into the ground, and falling apart besides. Thankfully, I know the tax laws, and have some little talent with such things, as well as a few well-placed connections. The finances should end up much better than they were even five or ten years ago."

There was another silence. Mycroft frowned.

"Aren’t you at all grateful? After all, this means you can continue to attend university."

"I never doubted your ability to manipulate money. Or people."

The boy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a box of matches and a cheap cigarette case, and without any suggestion of politeness, lit one. Mycroft eyed the case with disdain.

"Father had quite a nice cigarette case, you know, which you would be welcome to have. I myself prefer snuff, so –"

"I don’t want anything of his."

"You don’t seem so quick to dismiss his funds."

"Technically, they are your funds now, are they not?" the boy said, with one eyebrow slightly raised. Smoke trailed lazily from the end of his cigarette.

"Your insolence is astounding." The boy merely sat, his intent gaze never wavering behind the smoke. 

"Actually, I had rather wanted to discuss 'my funds', as you so rightly name them, and their continued disbursement." Mycroft was met only with the continued expressionless stare.

"I am aware of your involvement with Professor Moriarty and request that you end your association. Immediately."

There was no reaction from the opposite chair, aside from a narrowing of the eyes.

"Well?" prompted Mycroft after a few moments. 

"I am afraid that I don’t quite understand. Professor Moriarty is simply my maths tutor. Perhaps you think I should abandon mathematics for, say, accounting?" This last was overlaid with a slight tone of condescension. 

"Please do not imagine I am as foolish as you."

"Perhaps you believe I am abandoning my chosen field of chemistry, then. Do not worry, I am only –-" 

"This is not a game, and I am not playing." It was said easily, almost off-hand. "If you do not sever your ties with the professor then I shall do it myself, by severing your ties to the entire institution." 

The seconds stretched between them. Mycroft waited for a sign of capitulation while the boy showed no visible change in expression, apart from two bright spots of colour on his cheeks. His cigarette lay forgotten between his fingers. 

Finally, he took the box of matches back out from his breast pocket and relit his cigarette, taking a long breath of the tobacco. 

"You were always reckoned to be the smarter of us," he said. "It is certainly true; you have a brilliant mind. Calculating, even. And you are very correct; you are not as foolish as I. If I ever suspected someone close to me of, say, engaging in some sort of illicit behaviour, I would no doubt investigate – or worse, send someone else to investigate. What a terrible idea that would be! I might be seen, and had I been so imprudent as to hire someone, I would have to deal with the threat of potential blackmail forever. Certainly not a pleasant thought, especially for someone such as yourself, who is aiming for a rapid ascent up the governmental ladder." Mycroft stared stonily, and said nothing. "But of course you are much cleverer than I, and so you would never have done either of those things. No, conjecture and some threatening bluff – that is more the route you would be likely to go, is it not?"

Mycroft finally stirred.

"You misunderstand me. I am not thinking only of myself in this. I am concerned for your welfare. Moriarty presents a respectable façade to the world, but there have been whisperings about him for years. The rumours surrounding his departure from the last institution at which he taught –-"

"Mycroft, I am not as idiotic as you apparently believe me to be. You have no intention of removing me from school; if you had it would already be done. I know you don’t want any whiff of impropriety to reach your superiors and a brother suddenly leaving one of the most prestigious universities in the country would certain make a few eyebrows raise. That is the reason you have worked so hard to make sure the money is still there, not out of any kind of altruism."

"Lack of funds is only one reason among many that you might be forced to leave university."

"Yes, but most of those would be even more sordid, would they not?"

"You lied to get yourself accepted in the first place."

"Ah, but it is too late for that. I am sure the school governors would be interested to hear why you had not alerted them of the falsehoods earlier, as you must have known of them from the beginning."

"Damn it, I will not have our good name tarnished –-!" At this, the boy laughed.

"Yes, I know all about your efforts to keep our 'good name' free of stain. But really, how stupid do you think I am? Little as I care for my name, I certainly do care for myself, and ending up disgraced or in the dock is not amongst my plans."

"You do not understand the danger –-" Mycroft decided to try a different tack. "If you cannot think of your own family, at least think of the professor."

The boy ground out the stub of his cigarette into a nearby glass. He replied in a tense but controlled voice. 

"Mycroft, as I have said, you seem to have misinterpreted the relationship between my maths tutor and myself. Please, rest assured, I would never do anything indiscreet. You need not worry about any scandal falling down upon myself or you." His voice softened slightly. "And I would never do anything that might harm the professor."

Mycroft’s face was stern. 

"He is married, you know. He even has a young daughter."

His brother said nothing, but looked at him without expression. Mycroft’s lips thinned.

"What do you think you will do with yourself once he has tired of you? Go down to Cleveland Street?"

At this the boy’s expression darkened, and he stood up sharply.

"Good day, Mycroft," he said, coldly. His hands only clenched once as he walked toward the door. 

"Sherlock," called Mycroft, just as the boy reached for the doorknob. He paused and turned his head wordlessly. 

"That is quite an interesting bruise you have, peeking out from your shirt cuff there. The marks look to have been rather painful, I must say."

The boy blinked.

"Perhaps a memento of my last meeting with father," he said flatly.

"That would certainly be curious, as I know you did not see him for at least a month before his death." Mycroft stared intently at his brother, but the boy met his gaze evenly. 

"Yes, most curious. I shall have to have it looked at. Discreetly, of course." And then he opened the door and left.

 

 

end


End file.
